I always told you keep your secrets like ink, right up under layers of my skin where I can see the black mark they leave. Impermanence never deterred me from reaching for your hand like an anchor to measure my weight against paper-thin realities. Sink with me, lace my muscles and bones with the soft heavy haze of summer, let it rest heavily inside my head. Mark my body where it's out of sight, mark these moments each on the wall, leave them etched in tallies like we don't care how many we win or lose. In such a state as we are, everything fades into the white noise of soft muttered phrases. I twist my fingers around my anxieties, make them diluted and palatable for the journey ahead; I've been afraid of losing ground or losing you but it's unclear now as to how those fears came about in the first place, and their threads are unraveling as we speak. I think I tend to glorify these things more than I should, more than letting them fade into the background. The subconscious is a lonely place, no man should have to go there alone. Dress this up or down, but the underpinnings remain the same, and I've always found comfort in the way the ache of all the world's catastrophies rests in my bones like a shared evolutionary sorrow; I like how the pain grows my muscles stronger and my skin thicker. I think stitching myself into you has added new layers to these moments and new stories behind my eyelids and a few new marks on my wall of "chances I'm glad I took."
I think taking in the pain has given me the voice so sought-after and I think I've grown enough of it through my blood now to build you up how you deserve, and to show you that casting stones is not always a plan for failure; sometimes we find miracles in the middle of wrong calculations.